


Bang Bang (There Goes Your Heart)

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Network Monthly Prompts [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Ignoring Stupid Canon in this instance fyi), (Spoiler: They're not.), And still believes that everyone who comes to Beacon Hills is there to make friends, BAMF Stiles, Ergo knowing how to use a gun should be obvious, M/M, People seem to forget that the Sheriff is Stiles' dad, Rifle-wielding Stiles is Peter Hale's newest kink, Scott McCall is the True Creampuff, Steter - Freeform, Steter Network Monthly Prompt, Stiles-centric, The Steter Network, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Stiles has always been pragmatic and paranoid to Scott's friendly openness, and--to his frustration--suspicions about the newest arrivals to Beacon Hills go ignored and overlooked.That's fine, though.He's always been a fan of the saying 'If you want something done right, do it yourself.'





	Bang Bang (There Goes Your Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> August 2017 Prompt: Silver
> 
> *second submission

**Bang Bang (There Goes Your Heart)**

***

_If you want something done right, do it yourself._

This was an adage that Stiles had learned early on to live by: there was no point in lingering in childhood, not when his mother had slowly gone crazy and lost bits and pieces of herself to her illness—and not when his father had shattered into less than broken glass after her death, too immersed in his own grief to take care of the child that Claudia had left him. So, with no one to take care of him, Stiles had learned to take care of himself—and, eventually, had learned to take care of his father, as well.

If Stiles was honest with himself—and he always was, even if he spouted bullshit and lies to everyone else around him—it was this pragmatic attitude that most likely spawned his morally gray leanings: the acknowledgement that, oftentimes, there was no one else around him that he could comfortably rely on and, sometimes, the only way to ensure the best solution was to make it a permanent one.

Scott had always been the one to see the silver linings; Stiles had always kept one eye trained upwards and waiting for the first strike of lightning.

And if the amber-eyed teen wanted to be _more_ honest with himself—and why the hell not? it was a long hike to the overlook; might as well get in a little introspective time, too—his time being possessed by the Nogitsune certainly hadn’t helped matters. There was a ruthlessness to Stiles’ pragmatism now, one that he was fully aware would concern the pack should the others find out about it… which the teen was determined to never let happen.

Stiles grunted softly at the shift in weight as he resettled the pack across his shoulders, ignoring the soft _clink_ of metal pieces settling against one another, and he reached out to brush ivory-pale fingertips over the bark of an oak tree as he made his way higher up the faint footpath. A symbol that had been carved into the trunk months ago flailed silent but supernova bright before suddenly dimming, and the sounds of Stiles moving up the mountainside abruptly… _muted_.

“Ah, you’re finally here. Took you long enough. I was wondering if it would be necessary to play pack mule the last hundred yards; it sounded like you were beginning to struggle, Stiles.”

Rounding the corner of the overhang, the boy came to a sudden and complete stop at the commentary offered to him—lies and slander, but no surprise considering who it was that was offering up the opinion—and sent an ugly scowl Peter’s way. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped in irritation before making his way farther along the ledge. The older man’s presence was unexpected—certainly enough to throw Stiles for a loop but _not_ enough to derail any plans he’d already made—and the teen magnanimously chose to ignore the ‘wolf as he settled, cross-legged, not far from where Peter had perched himself on a rather large rock.

“The same could be asked of you,” Peter answered in return, and the younger of the two rolled his eyes at the werewolf’s refusal to provide a frank reply. Honesty, in Peter Hale’s case, was apparently _never_ the best policy, which… well, tended to be the way Stiles thought, as well, so there was no point in throwing rocks in glass houses.

“Maybe,” Stiles tossed back easily enough. “But I asked first.”

He didn’t bother watching for Peter’s reaction, blocking out the unwanted presence at his side as the teen began carefully unrolling the duffel that he had carried all the way up the mountainside. Bits and pieces of metal lay strapped to the outstretched fabric, and Stiles looked over the unassembled parts with a critical eye before pulling out a sturdy, closed box from one of the duffel’s many hidden pockets. A softer chime of more refined, purer metal rang out from the container, even as the teen set it off to the side.

There was no need to glance Peter’s way. Stiles could now feel his gaze, heavy with interest and curiosity and a quiet-edged malice, settling carefully upon his shoulders and the back of his neck.

“I was curious about a pattern that I’ve been noticing for months now,” the werewolf finally offered up, even as he watched the teen reach out with deft, experienced hands to begin assembling the metal pieces into a very sleek, very dangerous looking rifle. The gun was slowly brought to life, into existence, by clever fingers—and the confidence in which Stiles assembled the gun spoke volumes as to how many times he had done this before.

(The others had always looked at him as the resident human in the pack, even after the Nogitsune’s possession. Weak, human Stiles; Stiles who was 147 pounds of pale skin and sarcasm; Stiles who was also the Sheriff’s son and had been going with his father to the gun range since he was old enough to understand and recite back the gun safety speech. _Stiles_ : who had never taken to the chaotic power of a handgun and had always been drawn to—had excelled at—the quiet, patient power that coursed through a rifle’s metal body.)

“Yeah, zombiewolf?” was the only reply that the teen offered in turn, lifting the rifle to check along the long line of its muzzle—knowing instinctively that all parts had thus far been assembled correctly, pieces snug against each other, but it was habit—trained, ingrained, and repeated within himself—to double-check.

Peter ignored the nickname to instead lean forward, chin propped in one hand to continue watching Stiles with an openly fascinated, hungry-- _predatory_ \--gaze. “Mmm,” the werewolf hummed in agreement, glacial-bright gaze tracking the movements of Stiles’ fingers over the barrel of the rifle. “A rather nasty monster comes barreling through Beacon Hills, my dear nephew and our resident True Alpha attempt to talk sense into it; it seemingly repents, someone else gets injured as it makes its way out of town… and then no one hears from the creature ever again.”

Stiles’ amber gaze flickered up from beneath his lashes to meet Peter’s eyes at the not-so-subtle accusation, meeting the ‘wolf’s incandescent blue gaze for a long, steady moment before redirecting his attention back to his gun. “Maybe our Monsters of the Week really did suffer a change of heart,” the teen offered up glibly.

The werewolf snorted at that, blue gaze flaring brighter. “Or suffered a shallow grave,” he replied back, tone just as neutrally bland as Stiles’ had been.

“That almost sounds like an accusation, zombiewolf,” came the droll rejoinder. “Peter, are you _accusing_ me of something?”

Finished with his work now, Stiles lifted the solid weight of the Barrett M82A1M .50 BMG in his arms, bracing the rifle’s butt against the meat of his shoulder—testing the heft and balance, satisfied with the results. The rifle was his baby, and he had always taken care of it: it had taken forever and a day to convince his dad to buy him the same rifle that the Winter Soldier used for a long ago birthday, but the begging and pleading had paid off in the end. (And the teen readily admitted to being a fanboy nerd, but at least he was a _kickass_ fanboy nerd.)

Expression settling into something far more serious, mouth a tight, unhappy slash across his face, Peter glanced away from the teenage boy to watch as several bodies began gathering in the valley far below. “Every pack needs a Left Hand, Stiles,” the ‘wolf murmured, voice barely audible over the wind that moaned its way past the hidden overhang along the mountain’s front.

Something bitter and angry, layered with rage and a darker sort of understanding flickered over the boy’s face, turning his expression into one worn by a stranger, and Stiles once again glanced up to watch Peter from beneath his lashes. “Scott doesn’t have a Left Hand,” the teen pointed out, words eerily, calmly stated. “He believes in people too much to think that one is necessary—people are inherently good, right, and they can _choose_ to do good.”

He didn’t say anything further and instead flipped the box’s top open to pick up one of the many bullets that filled the wooden container. It had taken a great deal of bribing—and even more of blackmailing—Chris Argent into teaching Stiles how to cast and forge his own bullets before leaving Beacon Hills, but burning that particular bridge had been worth it.

Late afternoon sunlight gleamed off of the homemade bullet—steel for the main body, though Stiles used hollow, silver-alloy tips filled with mountain ash and holy water to ensure that they packed more of a… _punch_. If the mountain ash and holy water didn’t cause much damage to said Monster of the Week, the silver almost always hurt like a bitch for the flavor-of-the-week creature feature and the resulting shrapnel when the tip exploded ended with enough collateral damage that Stiles had proclaimed himself satisfied the first time he used his bullets with the rifle.

Cruelty and effectiveness over kindness—but Stiles just like to think that he was being _pragmatic_.

“Silver bullets? That’s not being very nice to our new friends. I don’t think that Scott would exactly approve,” Peter commented idly as he picked up one of the bullets to inspect it, claw-tipped fingers bringing the dangerous projectile closer for perusal.

“Do you remember what I said when you offered me the Bite, Peter?” the teen asked instead, settling on his belly after prepping the rifle with his bullets. It was easy enough to keep an eye on the meter that kept track of the wind direction and speed with half of his attention; the other half focused in on the group assembling below, faces coming into razor-sharp focus as Stiles watched through the gun’s scope.

Because he wasn’t watching, the honey-eyed teen didn’t see the flicker of thwarted _want_ , a desire carelessly denied with words that had proven themselves lies, anyway—given away by the tell-tale skip of a teenage boy’s heartbeat. “ _I don’t wanna be a monster like you_ … if my recall is correct,” the werewolf answered, voice tight.

A muffled snort came as the boy’s reply even as a dagger-sharp smirk curled dangerously up one side of Stiles’ lush mouth. “Ever wonder what part of the sentence gave itself away as the lie?” the boy asked rhetorically, once more feeling the heavy weight of Peter’s attention settle upon him like a too-thick cloak.

Through the rifle’s scope, Stiles watched as Scott smiled brightly at the head of the wandering shifter pack, hand extending in an open, guileless greeting. Derek shadowed the True Alpha, staying just behind the other boy’s right shoulder—tenser than Scott, but much more relaxed than what he should be.

Stiles remembered how he had tried to tell his best friend several days ago that appearances were _once again_ deceiving and the group of shifters who had crossed the pack’s boundaries _weren’t_ who they claimed to be. He had tried to bring up a variety of examples to prove his point, citing past situations where he had _obviously_ been right when pointing out ‘Who’s the Resident Evil Psychopath We Have to Deal With Next,’ but… his concerns had been dismissed and Scott had agreed to go out with Derek—and otherwise alone—to meet with the shifters’ leader to discuss conditions for settling down in Beacon Hills.

As the teen watched through the scope, the wechuge just smiled wide— _wide, wide, wider_ —until half of its face was all sharp teeth and insatiable, predatory eyes and the rest of its cannibalistic pack stepped out one by one from behind the trees to surround the two werewolves.

 _Stiles – Fourteen; Scott – Zero_ , Stiles thought uncharitably, anger flaring to life at the fact that he had been disregarded _again_ and also proven correct _again_ ; would there ever reach a point when the True Alpha actually _listened_ to what his best friend had to say…?

Picking up on the teen’s darkening mood, Peter’s gaze narrowed and he began, “Stiles—“

“ _Shut up, Peter_.”

Shockingly enough, the werewolf abruptly fell silent and Stiles took the moment of relative peace to breathe in—exhale—breathe in—exhale… and pulled back on the rifle’s weight-sensitive trigger, sending a _crack_ to echo through the valley below.

The wechuge leader’s head exploded, splattering gore everywhere.

 _Another_ shift in focus, _another_ inhale—exhale—and Stiles’ finger again settled on the trigger as yet _another_ thunderclap roared in the air: a moment of too-still silence before _another_ wechuge fell to the ground without its head. And again. And again. And again. The rhythm as steady and as constant as the tides of the ocean following the moon's relentless call.

++

When the last of the cannibalistic creatures had fallen, dead and possessing spirits fled back to their original sacred hunting grounds, Stiles exhaled roughly for the final time and pulled away from the scope, scrubbing a calloused hand over the chilled skin of his cheeks and forehead.

Before he had pulled away completely, he had seen his shell-shocked best friend being pulled away from the clearing by a pale but determined Derek, and it was enough—this time around, anyway—to know that both werewolves had managed to escape the encounter unscathed. A relief, in a way, though Stiles would have preferred that Scott didn’t have to witness the other pack’s destruction.

(But… _needs must_ , and Scott had originally refused to listen to Stiles’ opinion. It was unfortunate that the True Alpha had had to see the destruction that resulted from the amber-eyed teen being _right_ … but maybe it would mean that Scott might be a little more willing to listen to Stiles in the future. Maybe. Hopefully. --Stiles wasn’t holding his breath, though--) 

A soft scuff of a shoe against dirt sounded at the teen’s shoulder, and Stiles shifted enough to divert part of his attention back to the werewolf that had watched him systematically decimate an aggressive, cannibalistic troupe that had come to annihilate the Beacon Hills pack, methodical in his ruthlessness.

(Cruel in his desire to protect.)

Head tilting to the side and about to turn to fully face Peter once more now that the job was over and done with, Stiles stilled completely as a warm, solid body settled at his side and the unanticipated, surprisingly gentle pressure of wolfish teeth scraped over the nape of his neck, lingering at the thundering pulse at the crook of his throat.

Unexpected desire spiked, and Stiles’ amber gaze darkened and hooded as the werewolf’s lips brushed over thin, sensitive skin.

“You always were my favorite, darling boy,” Peter whispered against the delicate shell of the teen’s ear, and Stiles barked out a sharply amused laugh even as he reached up to hook his fingers in the collar of the werewolf’s shirt, dragging the older man down into a hungry, possessive kiss that Sparked to life and burned like a wildfire.

::fin::

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> (And yes, I slightly changed what Stiles said to Peter in Season 01 to better fit with the point of the story. Additionally: rifle reference taken from [here](http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Captain_America:_The_Winter_Soldier), though you'll definitely need to scroll down a bit.)
> 
> *
> 
> \--[and come say hi](http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/)! ;D


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